


basket of kisses

by hanabi



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21783025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanabi/pseuds/hanabi
Summary: series of kissy themed minific prompt fills from twitterch. 1 - ashe/dedue, in reliefch. 2 - claude/lorenz, as a promisech. 3 - caspar/linhardt, for luck (part 1 - prewar)ch. 4 - caspar/linhardt, for luck (part 2 - postwar)ch. 5 - sylvain/ashe, discreetly
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro, Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 206





	1. ashe/dedue, in relief

**Author's Note:**

> sorry about this mad men season 1 reference in the title but i've always loved that line lmao

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedue has always been beautiful, the most beautiful person Ashe has ever seen, probably, but nothing compares to the way his eyes crinkle softly in the corners as he offers up a tired, precious smile.

Dedue is really back. He's really back and he's really alive, and Ashe can hardly believe it.

He was devastated when he heard he was dead; devastated, hurt, and hopelessly angry. He’s still angry, come to think of it. Angry with this cruel and needless war, angry with the empire. He’s angry with Cornelia and the dukedom, angry with Rhea and her secrets. A part of him wants to feel angry with Dimitri, too, though he knows it’s not fair, after everything he’s been through. He can't help but to feel angry. Not when the person he feels most angry with is himself.

Because he is, most of all, so angry with himself that he let another person he cared about fall to his fate without telling him how he felt. 

He blinks back tears to think about it now, remembering his parents, remembering Christophe, remembering Lonato. Dedue is not his family, and he feels an ache of guilt towards both that he should be putting them in the same category. Guilty towards Dedue that he should think of him in the same terms when Ashe was never anything to him, and now, never would be; guilt towards his family for making them share the space in his heart with what could never be more than an unresolved schoolboy’s crush.

But the things he wanted to say to them are the same; I’m sorry, and thank you, I wanted to spend more time with you. And when he heard Dedue was dead--gentle, and honest,  _ resplendent _ Dedue--the yawning chasm in his heart just seemed to ache with something new.

But Dedue isn’t dead, after all. He is really, truly alive and well, and Ashe has seen it with his own eyes. He can barely believe it when he sees him, that day on the bridge. It feels like the wind has been knocked out of him by a cruel joke of fate and he falters. But Dedue’s seaglass eyes are unmistakable and Ashe’s heart leaps into his throat at the sight. He feels the intensity of his feelings rear back with a relentless vengeance in the shape of something he's never once in his life expected to see. Something vaguely shaped like hope, and perhaps a second chance. Then an enemy arrow nearly clips him on the shoulder and he fires back, on instinct. Right. Yes. Time to think about that later. 

He finds Dedue later in the greenhouse, quietly contemplating the state of disrepair it's fallen into in his absence. Somewhat paradoxically, it’s the Duscur blooms that have fared the best through the neglect. Like the person who planted them, they’ve managed to survive in a hostile environment that was never built for them, though Ashe feels a pang of guilt at the thought. Dedue deserves more than just to survive, Ashe thinks as he watches him crouch down towards the floor to trim a bit of overgrowth. He wants desperately to see him flourish and thrive, to see his kindness and generosity returned to him in kind. He wants to speak, but his voice catches in his throat watching Dedue work, so tender and so focused. How he’s missed this. How he’s missed him. 

Dedue stands and turns to face him, and Ashe is knocked breathless. Dedue has always been beautiful, the most beautiful person Ashe has ever seen, probably, but nothing compares to the way his eyes crinkle softly in the corners as he offers up a tired, precious smile. He’s halfway through saying something, Ashe’s name, he thinks, before Ashe is kissing him, wrapping his arms around his neck and pulling him down towards him and kissing him. Ashe has grown taller since the war started, but he still has to stand on his tiptoes to do it, feels dangerously close to stepping on Dedue’s feet in his greed just to get closer. 

But then he gasps, realizing what he’s done. What a selfish, greedy thing he must be to cross such a boundary without even asking if Dedue was okay with it. After all he’s been through, after everything he’s endured--Ashe is halfway to pulling away before he feels strong arms  _ (strong, so strong) _ wrap around the small of his back, pulling him in close and Dedue is kissing him, he’s  _ kissing him, _ and Ashe thinks he might pass out he’s so deliriously happy. He is so happy, overwhelmed with it really, at this renewed chance to tell Dedue everything, to let him how he feels. He wants to tell him everything before it’s too late, before he fails him again, before the war steals another second of their time. He whines against Dedue's open mouth as he pulls him closer, just hoping he knows, just hoping he understands how much he needs this. How much he needs him. 

They pull apart after a moment, blushing and gasping for breath, unable to break away more than that. Ashe noticed that his eyelashes are wet and it dawns on him that he's been crying, possibly hasn't stopped crying. Dedue widens his eyes in a look of concerned shock, and takes his face in his hand, brushing a tear away gently with his thumb. Ashe can't help but to laugh, at himself, at all of this. 

"I'm just… so relieved to see you," he says finally. A pitiful offering, but it's all he can manage. Dedue, in his infinite patience and beauty, smiles in return.

"I'm relieved to see you, too."


	2. claude/lorenz, as a promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude has made it a point to dance with each of the Golden Deer at least once, his emerald eyes sparkling in the candlelight, and Lorenz feels it like a fist around his heart.

The sun has long since set on their festivities, and Lorenz has started to feel horribly maudlin. He watches as his friends continue their celebrations; behind him he can hear Leonie and Raphael trying to hype Cyril up to talk to Lysithea, while Marianne and Ignatz weave together flower garlands for Dorte and his “friend,” for them to wear together in this new era of peace. It’s the peace that they’ve won, and the air feels crisp and colorful and sweet, vibrating with the clarity and potential of a thousand ringing bells. 

The relief is palpable, and Lorenz feels a sharp pang of guilt at the feeling of loneliness it sparks in him. He’s happy the war has been won, of course, and eager to be put to work to start building a new peace. But he wonders how many days they’ll have left like this, to enjoy the simple pleasure of each other’s company. He hopes, at least, that those of his companions with fewer noble responsibilities and less tyrannical fathers will be able to spend more nights like this, and tries to push away a small and unbecoming sting of jealousy. 

Claude has made it a point to dance with each of the Golden Deer at least once, his emerald eyes sparkling in the candlelight, and Lorenz feels it like a fist around his heart. What a talent he has for making whoever he's looking at feel like the only, most important person in the room. Lorenz watches him spin Hilda around, sees her giggle at him in joy, and thinks what a fine couple they make. He feels shamed by his envy at their easy intimacy, the way they can whisper barely a word in each other's ears before breaking away laughing at some shared joke or another. 

Only this time when they pull apart, it's not in laughter. Claude turns to look at Lorenz and graces him with the most dazzling smile he's ever seen. Suddenly, his mouth feels dry and he wants to flee but his feet feel rooted in place as sure enough, Claude starts walking over to him, spurred in his direction by a playful slap on the ass from Hilda. She leaves him to go hover by Marianne, and suddenly Lorenz feels desperate that she would stay with them. He doesn't trust himself, not like this, when his emotions are already burning too close to the surface and he's being confronted with the one and only thing that he's ever truly coveted in plain sight, for all the world to see. 

Claude approaches him with a quiet "hey," stretching his hand out towards Lorenz. He's shed his overcoat and outer trappings of the title he renounced only hours earlier and stands before him in his shirtsleeves tucked loosely into his trousers. His brown hair is tousled effortlessly and Lorenz thinks, with remorse, that it's the single most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Underneath it all he is just a man, the hair on his chest and his arms poking out benignly underneath the edges of his shirt. He looks somehow both worn out and exhilarated, in that strange mixture of emotion that only Claude can manage. But above all he is radiant, looking every bit the king he was meant to be, and the king that he is, in truth. 

Lorenz feels irresistibly, hopelessly drawn to him. He's never resented Hilda more in his life.

"Wanna get some air?" Claude asks him, hand still outstretched. Lorenz looks at it in shock, only belatedly registering its presence, then looks back up at him, confused.

"I thought you were going to ask me to dance," he admits, feeling foolish. Claude responds with a sheepish smile, dropping his hand at last.

"Do you want to?"

Lorenz looks back over his shoulder at the group--Leonie and Raphael have gotten into some kind of lifting contest and Lysithea has fallen asleep against Cyril's shoulder. He watches as Cyril pets her hair fondly and he swallows. "Some air sounds good," he agrees finally, and leads the way out to the terrace.

Claude joins him outside and leans against the railing. He looks even more beautiful in the moonlight, he thinks bitterly, and looks away, not eager to be caught staring again. He tries to think of something to say, anything to say to break the silence and deflect the sharp and inquisitive way Claude is gazing at him. 

"It will be lonely without you," he says at last, at the same time that Claude spits out a hurried apology. Lorenz stares at him in shock, daring to meet his eyes at last. He's hurt by what he finds there, an earnest and open look of concern and something he's afraid to name, something that might look like hope. Lorenz swallows. "Sorry about what?"

Claude frowns. "I'm sorry about all of this. I'm sorry I have to leave so suddenly. I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he gestures vaguely, looking frustrated with himself. 

"I don't understand," Lorenz replies after a moment. Claude laughs, but he doesn't feel mocked. He watches him carefully, recognizing the signs of a mind fast at work searching for the right words. A mind he's spent hours watching, years, really, and he feels desolate to think that he should have to live without it now. He hadn't been lying before; it will be desperately lonely without him. He will be desperately lonely without him.

Claude pulls him from his thoughts with a quick intake of breath, the way he does when he's about to pivot a conversation that's veered off too far in the wrong direction. "Lorenz," he starts, peeling himself off the railing and taking his hands in his own. Lorenz feels his face heat and he fears at once that his secret has escaped when he wasn't looking.

"Y-yes?" His voice creaks and he's uncertain of where this is leading him. Claude looks in his eyes and chews on the inside of his cheek and presses on.

"If I were to ask you to wait for me. Would you do it?"

Lorenz gapes at him in shock. "What do you…"

"When I first found out I had to leave Fodlan I thought that that would be that and everything would be fine," he starts. Lorenz doesn't know where this is going, and stays silent, waiting for him to continue. Claude's brow is furrowed and he's avoiding eye contact, fixating on Lorenz's knuckles, instead. "But then I thought about telling you and I realized. I realized that if you asked me to stay, I'd have a hard time saying no. So I wanted to ask you… will you wait for me?"

Lorenz feels his heart leap into his throat and his eyes well up with emotion. Selfish, selfish Claude, making a fool out of him at a time like this. But Claude looks up at him in that moment and he realizes that he truly is a fool, and has been one all along. Embarrassed, he straightens himself up, switching the grip of their hands so that he could grasp Claude's in his. Hesitantly, shaking, he lifts it to his lips and places a shy, hesitant kiss on his knuckles.

"Promise you'll come back," he says, cheeks dusted pink, "and I will."

Claude beams at him with the full force of a solar eclipse and frees his hands, using them to pull Lorenz down to him. "I will," he says, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. "I will, I will. I promise that I will."


	3. caspar/linhardt, for luck (part one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linhardt smiles a little to himself, remembering a smaller version of Caspar before him, chubby cheeks and skinned knees, lisping enthusiastically through his latest brother story with as many gaps between his teeth as he had in his narrative.

Caspar is buzzing with nervous energy, bouncing his weight back and forth between the balls of his feet and whispering to himself distractedly as though trying to hype himself up. He’s been this way ever since he was little, Linhardt observes, just before an especially exciting or anticipated event like a birthday or a planned excursion to the ocean with his brother, back when they used to still spend time together. Back when Caspar still looked at his brother like he was a god among men--when he still looked up to him more than anything and anyone. When he would do anything to make him proud, and to earn his approval. To have his hair ruffled and be told that he’d done a good job. 

Linhardt smiles a little to himself, remembering a smaller version of Caspar before him, chubby cheeks and skinned knees, lisping enthusiastically through his latest brother story with as many gaps between his teeth as he had in his narrative. As an only child, Linhardt could never really follow why his brother's opinion was so important to Caspar. To him the idea of an older brother just sounded cumbersome, like another person in his life trying to tell him to do things; though the thought of a decoy Hevring to deflect all the expectations of inheritance and responsibility were admittedly appealing, even to a young Linhardt. Either way, he usually listened patiently, since it obviously seemed important to Caspar. Until one day, it wasn't. But Linhardt let it slide.

Maybe it's why his nervous restlessness is so familiar now, why it seems to pop up more often than ever since they arrived at the monastery. He’s started pacing now across the courtyard, where Linhardt has perched himself on a bench with very serious plans of contemplating a nap. Though Caspar’s anxious tittering threatens to pose an obstacle to those plans, and he wishes now that he had at least brought a book with him to drape over his eyes, or to keep himself occupied while he rode out this latest tempest.

Hurricane Caspar shows no signs of abating, however. Linhardt watches as he sits next to him, leg bouncing nervously, then launches himself up again, as though rest is a luxury he can't afford. It looks positively exhausting to Linhardt, and he says as much, around a very urgent yawn. 

"What's got you this way?" he asks after a moment, finally deciding that Caspar is too wound up to bring himself down on his own. 

"Hm? Oh, ha," Caspar laughs, looking surprised, as though he only just noticed Linhardt there. Silly, Linhardt observes, when he was the one who suggested they come out here in the first place. "The professor asked me to represent our class in the brawling tournament," Caspar informs him, grinning sheepishly and sliding down to join him on the bench.

"Oh," Linhardt says, rearranging his limbs on the bench to make room for him. "Okay," he responds flatly, not quite sure what to make of that. Caspar pouts.

"I don't know what to do, man! I'm worried I'll screw it up."

Linhardt blinks at him, confused. "You're good at brawling," he points out, because he is. "Just do what you always do," he suggests, shrugging vaguely. Caspar seems unappeased. 

"I just," he starts, voice quieter than usual. "I don't wanna let anybody down," he admits, looking sheepish.  _ Oh _ , Linhardt thinks, recognition dawning on him only halfway into saying something along the lines of  _ who on earth would you let down, _ or  _ what does it matter if you do. _ He sees the look of hurt on his face, and it's the same as it was several years ago, around the same time that he stopped looking at his brother with all the reverence due to the rising sun.

Linhardt sighs quietly, feeling a rush of annoyance on his friend's behalf. For all that people might like to talk about his deficiencies, he  _ knows _ Caspar, and he has never been one to do anything but a good job. It's not in his nature to give anything less than his best, and he says as much, matter of factly. Caspar looks confused, so he presses on.

"No one in their right mind could be disappointed in someone who works as hard as you, Caspar. And if they are that's probably about them, and not you," he finishes sleepily, punctuating his point with a yawn.

Caspar doesn't respond, a rare event for him, only offering a small smile, pink blush dusting his cheeks. "...Oh," he manages eventually, and Linhardt thinks, at least, that he's managed to distract him from his worrying, if only a little bit.

So he leans forward and places a small kiss on the corner of his mouth. Caspar's face heats up like a bonfire, and his eyes are wide, and Linhardt feels an unfamiliar flutter in his stomach at the sight of it.  _ Interesting, _ he thinks quietly. 

"Wh-what was that for?" Caspar asks, but Linhardt can hear more than see a smile tugging at the edges of his voice. 

"You know," Linhardt offers, with a small shrug and a smile. "For good luck."

"Y-yeah!" Caspar responds, voice growing louder though it's shakier than usual. He's still blushing and grinning like a fool, and Linhardt thinks it might be the most endearing thing he's ever seen. "For good luck!" Caspar continues, mood already rising considerably. "Thanks, Lin. You're the best." 

"Any time," Linhardt responds around a yawn, and makes himself comfortable on the bench. 


	4. caspar/linhardt, for luck - postwar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Kiss for good luck?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows playfully. Linhardt laughs and rolls his eyes, the reference to his youthful flirtation from their school days not lost on him.

Linhardt sees his childhood home emerge from behind the trees, and the sinking feeling in his stomach grows heavier. The war is finally over, thank the goddess for that, but his tired dread of (and heavy impatience with) his father remains unabated. The house itself looks as gloomy as it always has, enough that Linhardt can feel his father’s quiet scorn emanating from the creaking rafters. Worse than that, he can picture his mother’s disappointed face as he finally puts words to the confession he’s labored over for years now--that he has no desire to carry on the family title and devote his life to managing the Hevring estate. 

"You know what," he interjects, reaching around Caspar to try to wrest away the reins of the horse he’s been leading in what feels like a slow march towards. Not death, necessarily, but a great deal of unpleasantness, he’s certain. “Maybe we can just. Skip my parents, go to town, take a nap instead…”

“Lin, no!” Caspar insists, pulling the reins out of reach and batting his hands away. “You promised. We’re gonna tell our families first thing, get it over with. And then we can go wherever we want after that.”

Linhardt slumps back, letting out a noncommittal hum. He wraps his arms back around Caspar’s waist and rests his chin on his shoulder. He had made that promise, it’s true. But it had been easier, then, in the darkness of night, between the clinking of glasses and the glitter of champagne bubbles in the candlelight. When Caspar was kissing him and all he had to think about was the press of their bodies together and his voice in his ear telling Linhardt that he loved him, that he wanted him, that all he ever needed was him.

_ We should go away after all of this, _ Caspar had said that night, the night the war had ended.  _ You and me, together, seeing the world. Leave the rest of it behind. Just the two of us. I mean it, Lin. Will you come with me? _

_ That sounds like a marriage proposal, _ Linhardt had responded, watching Petra and Bernadetta braid daisies into Ferdinand’s hair while Hubert and Dorothea watched on with longsuffering gazes. Edelgard had long since slipped out onto the veranda with their professor, though she stayed within view if only to calm Hubert’s frayed and tired nerves.

_ Would you want to if it was? _ Caspar replied, and Linhardt could only kiss him in response, tears in his eyes and heart in his throat.

He squeezes his arms more tightly around Caspar’s middle, letting out a small huff of breath that tickles the hair on the back of his neck. “My father won’t think that’s a very compelling plan,” he mumbles sleepily.  _ "Going wherever you want, throwing all cares to the wind. Responsibilities be damned." _ He imitates his father's grave countenance and deep baritone, and feels warmed by the rumble of Caspar's chuckle vibrating against his stomach. He knows exactly what his father will say, in some approximation, because he's heard it all before. He left his most frequent refrain unsaid _ (you're acting like a child, Linhardt. When will you grow up) _ though whether it's to shield Caspar or himself, he isn't sure. Either way, they would both be hearing some version of it soon, he was sure of it.

"Then we'll write up a detailed itinerary," Caspar says cheerfully, "with a budget and everything to show him until he's convinced."

Linhardt snorts. "When have you ever created a budget for anything?"

"I don't know," Caspar admits, confident grin undimmed as usual. "How hard could it be?"

_ Most likely harder than you think, _ Linhardt thinks to himself, but decides to let it slide. In a small act of mercy, Caspar guides their horse to the last watering hole on the road before the stables. He jumps down, and reaches his arms out towards Linhardt.  _ Oh, _ he thinks to himself,  _ right. _ He's still unused to this, these easy and casual acts of affection that have always been a part of their relationship, but lately make his heart beat faster and his face heat up. He blushes as he places his hands on Caspar's shoulders, feeling his strong hands grip around his torso and lift him up and out of the saddle. How cherished he feels here, how safe in Caspar's arms. 

"Whatever happens," Caspar assures him, "we'll get through it together." Linhardt nods, looking sullen. "And if shit goes down I can still run pretty fast with you over my shoulder!" he adds, optimistically. Linhardt snorts out another small laugh, and he knows that it's true, because they've done it before, under considerably worse circumstances. Caspar looks pleased with himself, that he could at least make him smile. 

"Kiss for good luck?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows playfully. Linhardt laughs and rolls his eyes, the reference to his youthful flirtation from their school days not lost on him.

"For good luck," he echoes back, and presses a kiss to his lips. 

And then another. And then another. He kisses Caspar again and again, holding him close as though afraid to let him go. Maybe he is. He doesn't know. He walks Caspar backwards until he's collapsing against a hedge, dragging a gasp from his throat and pulling impatiently at his clothes. He licks eagerly into his mouth, wanting to feel nothing but this, nothing but Caspar. Wanting to block out everything in his life that was keeping him from this, this, and only this. He wraps his arms around Caspar's back and presses their hips together, and that's when he feels him pull away slightly, pushing insistently at his shoulder. 

"Waitwaitwaitwaitwait," Caspar says, looking breathless, lips pink and moist and looking positively fetching. Linhardt pouts at the interruption. "Are you just trying to distract me so we don't have to go to your parents' house?"

Linhardt blinks at him and thinks,  _ oh. That would have been a good idea. _ "No," he says honestly, tongue darting out to lick at the spit on his lips. 

"Oh," Caspar says, looking confused. "Okay."

"Can I…?" Linhardt asks, leaning back in with a smile. 

"Y-yeah! Yeah, go ahead," Caspar says, inclining his head for another kiss before pulling back again, distracted. "We are going to see your parents today though, right?"

Linhardt rolls his eyes.  _ "Yes,  _ Caspar, we are. Now will you  _ please _ stop talking about them so I can kiss you properly?"

"Okay, okay," Caspar concedes, flashing a grin, and Linhardt can't help but think how pitifully fond he is as he leans in once again.

And it hadn't been his intention, truly, it hadn't. But if he should happen to make enough of a mess of Caspar that they will have to stop at an inn first to make him presentable again, he couldn't be blamed for thinking that all parties will be better off for it, in the end.


	5. sylvashe, discreetly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashe had found that night, and several nights since, that it was terribly easy to let Sylvain push him into the bed and fuck him like the world was ending, because maybe it was. 
> 
> But there had to be rules.

Ashe is sure to set the rules as soon as it starts. Whatever… this thing is. This thing that started the night Sylvain stumbled morosely into his bed and offered him company, and Ashe didn't kick him out. Ashe  _ had _ been lonely that night, desperately so, as he had been so many nights during this long and desolate war. And it was so easy to let Sylvain pull him into his lap and kiss at his neck and press their bodies together like nothing else in the world ever existed or mattered. Easy, when he looked so tired and harrowed, the soft light of the lamp by Ashe's bed casting shadows over his handsome features. When he spoke to him in a low voice, stripped of its usual bittersweet artifice, and asked Ashe for permission, where he usually sought forgiveness.

Ashe had found that night, and several nights since, that it was terribly easy to let Sylvain push him into the bed and fuck him like the world was ending, because maybe it was. 

But there had to be rules.

The first one was more like a promise, and it technically was Sylvain’s idea. “Nobody has to know,” he’d mumbled against the space between Ashe's jaw and his neck after helping him pull his shirt up and over his head. He’d said it carefully, like a reassurance as he placed his hands softly on Ashe's back, as though he thought he still needed convincing even after he’d agreed. Ashe hummed his assent and arched his back into his touch, pushing his hips up against Sylvain's with his bottom lip worried between his teeth because no--nobody did need to know. He tried to push away the thoughts of whatever pitying looks he'd inevitably get from Annette and Mercedes if they ever found out, let alone the disdain and disappointment he might expect from Felix and Ingrid. And Dedue and his majesty…… Anyway. This was for the best, he'd resolved, that first night while he listened to Sylvain's breathing even out as he gradually fell asleep, arms wrapped loosely against Ashe's torso. Nobody needs to know.

The second rule is as important as the first, but it takes Ashe by surprise and shocks him with its urgency. It's the second or third time they've done this and Sylvain is feeling more upbeat, more playful when he backs Ashe up against the wall and whispers honey sweet words into his ear. "I saw you across the room and you looked so pretty, baby," he murmurs, his warm breath sending a tremor down Ashe's spine. "Why don't you let me show you a good time," he continues, boxing him in with his broad shoulders and placing a finger under his chin, tipping his face gently upwards to look at him. Ashe squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out Sylvain's charming smile as he feels himself shiver with equal parts anger and arousal.

"Don't…" he starts, voice shaky.

"Don't?" Sylvain echoes back, quietly. Ashe looks up and sees his wide brown eyes, soft around the edges, peering at him in confusion. He thinks with some bitterness how easy it would be to let himself fall into them, how easy to let himself become a casualty of them, just like the others. 

"Don't… talk to me like you talk to them," he manages, averting his gaze in an effort to shield himself, if nothing else.  _ Don't talk to me like you want me to love you, _ he means.  _ Don't talk like you hate me. Like I know you hate them. _

Sylvain stays silent for a moment, before nodding silently. "You're right," he says after a while, contrition written on his face. "I'm sorry." He takes Ashe's face in his hand and brushes his thumb gently over his cheekbone as he leans in for a kiss, another whispered apology on his lips. Ashe's heart thumps in his chest as he lets himself be kissed, lets himself be pressed against the wall as Sylvain drops to his knees and starts pulling at the laces at the front of his trousers. He lets out a shuddering breath as Sylvain strokes him through his smallclothes and tells himself that it can be okay, that he can be okay with this as long as they make sure to follow the rules. Though a part of him fears, as Sylvain looks up at him with a softer smile than the one he's used to, that he may be in more danger than ever.

They carry on this way for several weeks, sneaking away late at night to make hurried efforts in hushed voices to distract themselves from the world crashing down around them. At times, Ashe even thinks it's working, as he wraps his legs around Sylvain's sturdy back and his arms around his broad shoulders, holding on for dear life. And he tells himself, on the days when he watches Sylvain throw his arm casually around Felix and shoot him an easy smile, that it's better this way. Better to take as much as they need from each other and not the slightest bit more. It would be foolish to ask for more, and fools seldom survive times of war.

Which is why it surprises him when it's Sylvain who pulls him aside by the stables, the day they're set to ride to Enbarr. Ashe casts a concerned look over his shoulder at Ingrid and Felix, who are too distracted arguing with each other as they mess around with the saddlebags to pay them any mind. He's vaguely aware that Sylvain's addressing him as he stares, speaking softly and gently in that way that he's capable of when he wants to be. When he chooses to be. Ashe hums noncommittally, too distracted by the sounds of people nearby fussing about with their various jobs to take in most of what he's saying. 

So it takes him entirely by surprise when Sylvain takes his face in his hand and places a soft kiss on his lips. Ashe starts, eyes wide, hands fumbling uselessly by his side as he tries to regain his grasp on the situation. When Sylvain pulls back he looks sheepish and shy--more vulnerable than Ashe has ever seen him. The sight makes him swallow. He's afraid to put a name to the way that it makes him feel. 

"Wh-wh," he starts, unsure of where it's leading him. He only knows that he needs to say something. 

"I just wanted to tell you to be safe out there," Sylvain supplies, taking mercy on him with a small, somehow self deprecating smile on his face. His voice is low but it's steady, and it does nothing to smooth out the lump in Ashe's throat.

"Oh," he says at last, unsure of how to proceed. They're off the map now, the map of rules that they agreed on--at least, that Ashe thinks they agreed on. That he's pretty sure they agreed on.

Sylvain looks at him, considering for a brief moment, before releasing his face and squaring his shoulders. "Yeah," he says, his usual brilliant smile back in place. "So, that's all I wanted to say." His voice is dripping with levity as he pulls away and it makes Ashe feel sick to his stomach.

"Sylvain…" he starts, no longer checking--no longer interested in knowing if anyone's looking at them. Sylvain shoots him a smile and starts to say something infuriatingly, almost impossibly Sylvain along the lines of  _ hey, it's fine _ before walking away, and Ashe feels a small burn of frustration at the sight of it. " _ Sylvain, _ " he says more firmly, grabbing him by the wrist and preventing his retreat.

Sylvain blinks at him in confusion, so Ashe squeezes his eyes shut as he stands up on his toes, wrapping his arms around his neck and pulling him down for another kiss. He feels Sylvain gasp into his mouth, feels his hands rest at the small of his back to pull him closer, and can't help but let out the tiniest little groan as he deepens the kiss. Because this time it feels different, more raw and more bare and more honest and more  _ there _ . Ashe risks his heart just enough to open his eyes, to see Sylvain's brows knit together as he kisses him openly. When he sees him like that, Ashe finds that he doesn't really care so much after all if people end up finding out, so long as it keeps making him feel like this: so wanted and so cared for, in spite of everything.

They pull away after a moment, Sylvain's eyes wide and hesitant, and he swallows, staring at him silently. Waiting for him to proceed, Ashe realizes, and he supposes that that's fair. But he also can't help but notice, as he lowers his heels back down onto the sandy earth, that he hasn't let him go, arms still gripping tightly at his back and holding him close. So Ashe lets out a breath, and tries to remember how to be brave.

"You stay safe too," he says, looking up into Sylvain's eyes. He doesn't know what more he can say; only hopes he'll see it--only hopes he'll understand. But when Sylvain he smiles down at him, he finds his eyes are soft, and so is he.

"I will," he replies, and Ashe feels it resonate in his heart. He will, he thinks. They will.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi @lilytheas!


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